Rural schools cannot afford to be left behind

I advocated passionately for complexity to be included in teacher agreements in Saskatchewan.

I made phone calls and emails to the ministry and local MLAs. I shared on social media. I celebrated when the Saskatchewan Teachers Federation was victorious in getting it granted.

And then the news came that complexity funding was only available for schools of more than 75 students. What a gut punch.

As if small schools don’t experience learning disabilities, behaviour issues or language barriers. As if one teacher trying to create a lesson plan for the five grades she teaches in one classroom has no complexity at all.

Such disappointment. Rural schools left in the dust yet again.

And then the double whammy came — not only would we not be receiving funding or an additional teacher body to assist with complexity, but the existing teacher complement we currently had was going to be cut further. That was it. That’s the final straw.

Rural schools matter. Our rural students matter.

We already have to deal with pot-hole filled roads, no cell service and internet that can’t handle Netflix without buffering a thousand times that makes us feel forgotten by our governments and corporations.

But sub par education? That shouldn’t be tolerated.

These students are the children of the families that are feeding our world, raising the cattle and growing the crops that gave Saskatchewan the nickname “bread basket of Canada.” Politicians love to use that phrase when touting how amazing our province is, but when it comes to providing support for those very same families, all you can hear is the sound of crickets coming from government. Just like the sounds of crickets on our lands.

And believe me, our rural teachers are trying their best. They give and give and give.

They volunteer more than anywhere else to ensure our small-school students get as much of a “school experience” as they can with such small numbers.

Sports require combining multiple schools to make a team, and driving and driving and driving to small towns or cities hours apart to compete.

But they can only do so much. They have lives and their own families to prioritize, too.

In a school with four teachers, sports and clubs require high volunteer participation from teachers. Every single adult body in the school matters immensely.

Losing even one body makes things like recess supervision, prep time and sports nearly impossible to pull off.

Our students lose out on the knowledge, life experiences and passions they bring to the school — one less interest shared with a student that inspires them to pursue science or art or travel.

The impacts are more than just numbers on paper. Its effect is felt deeply by everyone who enters the building.

In a school where there are five grades to a classroom and grades 10-12 are taught 60 per cent online, low registration becomes a self-fullfilling prophecy.

New families choose to live elsewhere where their kids will receive a more normal version of the school experience. And so, the cuts continue to come.

But here’s the kicker— we’re considered a “school of necessity.” There are no other schools in the region close enough for our students to attend.

So if we’re a school of necessity, why do we continue to feel like we’re on the brink of closure?

Why are our students forced to endure educational and support gaps that would be considered completely unacceptable in a bigger centre?

Why must our continuously shrinking teacher complement be left to figure out how to fill the gaps and make it work?

Why were the complexities that rural schools experience completely ignored and left out?

I, for one, would love an answer.

Kira Glas is a farm wife and mother living in Val Marie, Sask.